channeling an unholy past

the earth
buzzes
a slow orbit

this sun of
a moon
lobs
his soft ball

a pearled
glow

my fragile
neck

he once surmised
that i am incapable
of hurting
anything

i lie
by omission

never speak of
the killings;

beneath a hot sun

dead flies
mid-coitus- small moans

i gobstop spit
in my palm- flesh
him pale

lick
his
lips












m

death became habit

in our house, death became habit - and we knew its ritual- in shallow graves, cats were buried with a shock of lilac or cluster of dandelion- and dogs were lowered wearing thick, leather collars that jingled a final time as neck and bone settled into a dirt pocket, which glen had labored all day to dig

and men-

men were buried in dress blues, beneath american flags, with photos of us tucked carefully between fingers












m